The “other” employe lounge is a low-ceilinged, windowless space under the bandstand. The conversation dribbles to a stop when they see me at the door. “Jefferson,” I call to the bartender. “Please come to my office.”

The short, rotund, very black man puts on the shoe he was polishing, and hurries after me. “What is it, Mr. Fabrizio?” He asks when I shut my door.

“I have a favor to ask,” I tell him. “You know I rely on you to keep the customers happy, orderly and paying. You’re the best; Jefferson. There isn’t another negro in this place that’s as well paid and appreciated as you.”

Jefferson surveys me from behind lowered lids. “What’s the favor, sir?”

“I—I’m not feeling well,” I say, folding my hands on the glass-covered desk.